


his fucking audacity

by unluckytortilla



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 15:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unluckytortilla/pseuds/unluckytortilla
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have a drunken night together. Their relationship takes many turns, for good and for worse. And for the first time, Crowley talked (not yelled) to his plants. (First published on tumblr, @unluckytortilla)





	1. chapter one

Aziraphale invited Crowley over to catch him up on the latest book. Crowley would usually nod, mutter something under his breath, and half-heartedly pay attention until he found something that interested him. They’d have a couple of cigarettes, some wine, and maybe Aziraphale would sneak in a crepe or two. Overall, nights like these were the ones that they both cherished the most.  
Crowley had brought over a new record, one that he thought Aziraphale would like. The Beatles was a compromise for them, although Crowley hadn’t really compromised anything—he just didn’t want to listen to Aziraphale’s god-awful piano music for another millennium. He also carried some new champagne flutes that he thought the angel ought to enjoy. Accompanied with a celebratory bottle of the finest champagne a demon could buy. What were they celebrating? Neither of them knew. Neither of them cared.  
Aziraphale welcomed Crowley. A night together like this way long overdue. It had been months since the last one. Everyday, Aziraphale hoped that his—no, a certain—demon would come to his shop with the most specific—and frankly, unimportant and sometimes boring—piece of news. He didn’t care that some beetles made a peppered lonely hearts gathering, or whatever it was, he only cared for who was delivering such news.  
“I’d thought you’d like these,” Crowley let himself into Aziraphale’s flat, searching through a brown paper bag full of tissue paper, and a bottle—ah, yes, and some new glass flutes.  
Aziraphale quickly accepted the gift, gleefully clinking the glasses together, and turning his head so now his ear could clearly hear the beautiful noise. “Thank you, dear. Oh, listen to that gentle ring! How inspiring!”  
“Inspiring, yesss. ‘Xactly what I thought,” Crowley allowed his words to slew together. To tell the truth, Crowley didn’t hear anything ‘inspiring’ or particularly special about the noise—whatever it was. He was just glad to see his—his meaning the angel he had been assigned to keep an eye on, his meaning nothing else—angel.  
The new Beatles album played, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, that’s what it was, Aziraphale had remembered. It wasn’t quite in his taste, but it was the thought that counted anyway, right?  
Crowley sat abnormally close to the angel—‘close’ meaning, instead of his usual leather chair across from the matching couch where Aziraphale sat, Crowley plopped on the arm of the sturdy sofa. He claimed it was so he could be closer to the record player, so he could hear the vinyl better without disrupting Aziraphale too much. And surely, what he claimed was the real reason.  
Picture yourself on a boat on a river, the record played. Aziraphale handed the demon near to him the new flute filled with some champagne. “So, Crowley, do you…you like to picture yourself on a boat on a river?” Crowley to the glass, his fingertips around the rim—which, for the record, made Aziraphale noticeably cringe, afraid that the demon would ruin another rug. One day, something was bound to slip from his fingertips if he kept this up—  
Crowley noticed the angel shiver and copied Aziraphale’s way of holding the glass. Gently gripping around the cup, Crowley realized that he had been asked a question. “A boat… a river…no, angel, can’t say I’ve ever pictured myself on a boat on a river. ‘Tisss just the song, darling.”  
‘Darling’ was a new term that Aziraphale noticed. Not to say that he wasn’t not fond of it, cause he wasn’t—he was not not fond of it, to clarify. It probably had to do with the latest fad that Crowley had somehow picked up. For someone who likes to think of himself as illiterate, Crowley sure was knowledgeable about pop culture from the last couple centuries, minus a hundred or so years for his nap. There was always a new word, or phrase, or vice, as humans liked to call them, arising. Smoking, drinking, cociane, something of the sort. Crowley had tried it all, at least in the knowledge of Azriaphale.  
“I read this biography of this one human—an American, for a change—called Babe Ruth. It was fascinating, except the author kept using ‘runs’ as if it were a noun,” Aziraphale was searching for some of a Crowley’s insight—this was a change, really. Usually he would explain an elaborate story and it would take Crowley a couple of glasses—more like bottles—of wine to get through.  
“I didn’t know you had an interest in sports, angel. I have to say, I am surprised,” Crowley didn’t have a huge interest in sports himself, but during his time—very, very limited time—in America, he saw a game or two. Even had a ball signed by Babe Ruth, but that wasn’t the only thing that involved ba-  
“But, what exactly is a ‘run,’ my dear?”  
‘My dear,’ Crowley liked the sound of that. Although Aziraphale had said it before, he hesitated this time. This time it was intentional, Crowley noticed, not a slip-up like the times previous. He thought for a second about that, and how to explain this is simple terms for the angel. “A run in baseball scores a point, darling, and the team with the most points wins.”  
Aziraphale nodded. He now understood, and the novel made much more sense. With this information, he decided, he was going to make an effort to read more books about this ‘Babe’ guy. Whose actual name, one that sat more comfortably with Aziraphale, was George. A simple name, really. But he agreed that it wasn’t fit for an American hero, as the book described.  
After sometime, Crowley pleasantly relaxed into the couch, unbothered by the minimizing space empty space. He happily drowned himself in the new music and alcohol, distancing himself from—well, his physical form. It was something new Crowley tried. He pictured himself on a boat, and consequently, a river, just as the song suggested. Aziraphale’s words, no matter how lovely the sound, bored him; he didn’t focus on that, but the way the angel said those words. That helped Crowley feel, for lack of a better word, normal again. He wasn’t too in love with boats, anyway. Aziraphale, however, he…  
Aziraphale had a growing interest in American sports, more specifically, baseball. He scanned the book again, describing each chapter aloud. Since Crowley had prior knowledge of the subject, Aziraphale thought he would like this. The music had stopped, but neither of them noticed. They were too busy talking, catching up, all that. From a third party perspective, it seemed they were too engrossed with each other to notice anything else. And it was lovely.  
As upsetting as it was, time was a persistent thought in Aziraphale’s mind. It was late; they had been talking for hours. “Crowley, I hate to say it, but it is getting late.” He dreaded ending another great night with his friend, but it was well after midnight, and this angel wasn't known for pulling all-nighters.  
The thought had never passed Crowley’s mind. He didn’t have a great sense of time, and often got in the habit of waking up for the day two—am or pm. He didn’t think about it twice, naturally, Aziraphale would let Crowley stay on the couch. Friends did it all the time, and yes, it’s rude to invite yourself over, but that was one of the many lovable things about Crowley. “Well, it is your place, so darling, I am perfectly fine taking the couch.”  
After an a quick, uncomfortable silence, Aziraphale blurted,“You go too fast for me, Crowley!”

Crowley wasn’t one to get upset. He never set his expectations too high, or really at all, for anything. But he expected kindness—politeness, at the least—from Aziraphale, an angel.  
“Too fast? What are we, five? It’s been six-fucking-thousand years, and we’re going to fast!” Crowley raged, screaming at one of his house plants. He hadn’t even noticed that he was now in his own home, not in Aziraphale’s flat. He hadn’t noticed his rain-soaked clothes from the way home, or the annoying buzzing of the radiator that he would normally turn off. He hadn’t even noticed that he was sitting upside-down in his chair, feet where his head would normally go and vice-versa.  
He angrily rolled out of his chair, still yelling profanities at a cactus. He walked over the pile of wine bottles that had just missed the bin, grabbing one at a time and chucking them against the wall.  
My best friend, betray me like this. How could he? Another bottle. His fucking audacity, you know? Kicking me out like that…I didn’t even do anything! Like the piece—he threw a bottle—of shit—and another one—that I—another one—fucking am! and one last bottle, still containing wine, shattered into a hundreds of pieces onto the floor. For once, just once, he thought something through. Crowley wanted to make Aziraphale comfortable with what he, himself, wanted.  
“That bloody angel!” Crowley screamed, at a volume he didn’t know he was capable of, before breaking down in tears.  
He cried for hours, digging himself deeper into the same hole. He knew he had feelings for the angel, he knew for ages—its what prompted that nap—but he never thought that it was this bad. In the past, on a night like this, Crowley would go out and ignore what he felt, but he couldn’t this time.


	2. chapter two

the next day. the bookshop.  
—

Aziraphale barely slept last night. Crowley had walked out without much conversation as to why. Aziraphale thought it was something he did, or said, or something of the sort—but there was a lot of things that were done and said that night, and a lot of things that he didn’t remember doing or saying. That’s what irked him the most, that he couldn’t remember what he had done, and therefore, couldn’t apologize for it.  
When he reluctantly opened the shop, flowers and a note were on his desk. The flowers were bright, beautifully colored a hue of teal. They had yellow, black, and white centers and five, distinct petals. Aziraphale forgot the name of the flowers, but the flowers weren’t of the upmost importance right now. The note, that was important. The note that read: Thought in person might be ‘too fast’ for you. Apologies. -A.J.C.

Too fast… why too fast…why was it quoted. Aziraphale paced back and forth down an isle in his shop, repeating, “Too fast, too fast.” He didn’t know why it sounded familiar.   
Aziraphale went about his day. A quiet day, actually. No one visited the shop, no one walked in to ask Aziraphale to go out for lunch, no one that surprised him with chocolates. That saddened Aziraphale.   
“Oh, fuck!” Aziraphale sat up straight, eyes wide, literally and metaphorically. He had remembered what happened. Crowley had gone too fast. Aziraphale told him without an explanation. Crowley left. Aziraphale drank.  
It shouldn’t have been a big deal, Aziraphale thought, now looking back. Why couldn’t he just stay the night on the couch? It puzzled him, really. But, he’s sure drunk Aziraphale fully thought that through.  
He sewed for most of the day, with a sushi break a noon. Aziraphale sat alone at the sushi bar, the waiter asking where Crowley was. They were regulars there. When he was done, the waiter handed him the bill. He paid in cash, then left. With nowhere to go and no one to see.  
Usually, at about this time, he’d be in the Bentley with Crowley, going well over the speed limit, on the way to the park to feed the ducks. Something that seemed very human of them, really. It was apart of their routine. One that was very rarely broken.  
-  
the park.  
-  
Little did Aziraphale know, Crowley was at the park, feeding the ducks. On the way there, he went eighty five in fifty five zone. He went to lunch before, at their crepe place that was just down the street. He even got chocolates, but left them to melt in the car.   
He drove to the bookshop without anyone in the passanger’s seat telling him to slow down. He didn’t get out of the car, he didn’t check to see how melted the chocolates were in the backseat, and he most certainly didn’t go buy new ones. He didn’t tease Aziraphale about his books, nor compliment him on the latest sweater he sewed. He just sat, quietly.   
Crowley went home. He took off his shoes at the door, hung up his coat, and left his necktie thrown on the counter somewhere. He crawled into bed without yelling at his plants, and without even read the book that Aziraphale had lent him.   
There was a strong absence in Crowley’s life that day. It all seemed so empty. He seemed so empty.   
It wasn’t until that moment when Crowley, mostly dressed and half-asleep, realized just how much Aziraphale changed him—impacted him. Up until this point, Crowley viewed himself as independent, unaffected, and in control of himself. And he was exactly none of those things. Crowley thought he thrived on his own. When he was alone, he had gotten the highest praises from Hell, without merely trying. Alone, he could sit, play whatever music he wanted, drive however he wanted, and be whatever he wanted. What he had yet to realize, and what would be far from Crowley’s mind for a long time, was that he could, and unconsciously did, all those things around Aziraphale.   
-  
the next day.  
-  
Crowley woke up around lunch time. He didn’t know when or how he went to sleep, but he wanted to go back to bed. Throughout the night, he had taken off his shirt and pants, leaving him most bare. He sat in his robe—which Aziraphale had given him—staring at the telly. Except, nothing was on. Silence surrounded him once again.  
Eventually, Crowley got dressed, only to go for a ride in the Bentley. He thought he owed a sincere apology to Aziraphale, he just had trouble putting it into words. Although an “I’m sorry” would be enough for the angel, it wouldn’t be enough for Crowley. Nothing would be good enough.   
Once Crowley got out of his car, the botanist greeted him with a suggestion, “More forget-me-nots, Anthony?”  
“Not today, Anathema, no,” he sauntered around the shop, lifting some petals along the way—petals that had holes in them, or weren’t perfectly shaped, or had a slight imperfection. “I need flowers.”  
Anathema laughed, “That’s usually why people come in here.”  
“No, no, no,” Crowley corrected himself, “I need good flowers—not the lousy ones you care so much for.” He needed perfect flowers—he was going to give them to someone perfect after all.  
“To apologize to Aziraphale,” Anathema spoke, done with Crowley’s games. There was a pause. Anathema put down the scissors she was using, Crowley stopped pacing, and they looked at each other. “He told me,” she continued.   
The conversation went until another customer came in. Crowley enjoyed their conversation quite a bit, and the flowers that he found, too. From there, he went on to the bookshop, ready to apologize—with the help of Anathema, of course. He had an apology that would be more than enough for the angel, an apology that was written on a post-it and tucked away in Crowley’s coat.  
The bookshop was empty, but the lights were still on and the door was open. Aziraphale had left the flowers from yesterday on the shop counter, where not nearly enough sunlight could reach them. The were unwatered, forgotten. “Missed the whole bloody point of the flowers,” Crowley muttered, moving the vase closer to the window sill, and spraying them with his pocket-sized water spritzer.   
After some time, Crowley had concluded that the shop was one of two things, either empty, or Aziraphale was hiding. The first one seemed unlikely to Crowley, the shop still looked opened. He left without leaving a note, without even leaving the flowers. All that was left were some fallen petals on the floor that Crowley failed to notice.   
-  
the streets of london.  
-  
Cars filled the road, but not many people were on the sidewalk. Usually this part of town would be bustling with people, but the chill of November drove them away. Everyone but Aziraphale. He walked proudly down the street toward Crowley’s place. He had only been there a couple times in the past hundred or so years, but he had taken note of how to get there. He knew he would need to go there some day.  
Aziraphale talked to himself on the way there, mostly as a way of calming down. It was a simple mission, really: apologize, talk about, go back to being friends—or whatever they were to each other. Right now, Aziraphale just needed to get back to his demon.  
Aziraphale approached the concrete, sixties style house, and knocked anxiously on the wooden door. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result. Queen played in the distance, somewhere from inside the house. Aziraphale thought that Crowley would be home, but there was no Bentley in the driveway. Disappointed, he walked back to his flat, leaving the vinyl he wanted to return on Crowley’s doorstep.


	3. chapter three

later that day. the plant sanctuary.   
-

The plant sanctuary is quite an interesting place. There was Crowley’s big chair in the corner, and tables that filled the rest of the room. One table was once for plants, but is now empty. Those plants…well, no one talks about what happened to those plants.   
Crowley’s favorite spot in that room was that table. To him, it felt like he was standing on the graves of his enemies—which, isn’t true, but he liked to think that. The plants shook in fear when Crowley stood on that table. Usually, he would scream—usually meaning every single goddamn time. A plant would get…it would disappear, to put it nicely, immediately following this. 

Crowley sauntered in, reeking of alcohol. Bottle in hand, he climbed upon the table. This time, something felt off, inconsistent with all the times previous. He didn’t stand, nor walk in circles on the table—he sat on it. His legs dangled off the edge; his toes lightly touching the floor. “He ignored me,” Crowley talked as though he were in a therapy session. For him, this is the closest he’d ever get to one. “He ignored me!” This time his voice boomed throughout the room, causing the plants to shake. “I called his name like an idiot! Hoped he would be at the park, even got him some dumbass flowers…” Those flowers were smashed on the floor next to him.   
Crowley didn’t bother to inspect his plants that night. He halfheartedly watered them and went to bed. Not to actually to sleep, but to lay in his room for for the rest of the night.

Sleep was something that often eluded Crowley. He brewed himself a nice pot of tea to try to help him feel tired, but that didn’t work. He took a walk; he tried sleeping on the couch; he changed into some silk pajamas (which were once Aziraphale’s, but Crowley refused to give them back). Nothing worked.   
Somewhere between the couch, the door, his bed, and the floor, Crowley fell asleep for a couple minutes.   
The ringing of his cell phone woke him up. Thinking it was just Hell, he ignored it. But the ring was persistent, so he answered, “What?”  
“Oh, Crowley..” he’d know that voice anywhere.  
“Aziraphale.” They stayed on the phone, hearing each others’ breath through the line.   
Aziraphale took a deep breath, “I just wanted to let you know that I stopped by your house this afternoon. I left the record we listened by the door since you enjoyed it so much. Well, that is all-“  
Crowley was happy to hear his voice again. “Angel, lunch at the Ritz.”  
“Pick me up at noon,” Crowley felt Aziraphale’s smile through the phone. It was a smile of relief, and it was the best he had ever felt.

After a good twenty minutes staring at his closet, Crowley decided on his good suit. A simple black suit that was tight but still fit, with a black button up and a red tie. It was the Ritz after all, and it calls for dressing up, right?   
Crowley went to go stand on the table in the sanctuary. He told his plants what just happened. “Guys, how’s my outfit?” Somehow, all the plants did their form of nodding—it was miraculous, really. “Grow better, plants. Adieu.” And the plants survived, for now.  
-  
the bookshop.  
-  
Anathema was next to Aziraphale during the phone call. She rushed to pick out Aziraphale’s outfit. Not much change, really, except for his bowtie—instead, Aziraphale proudly wore his new beige and blue striped one.   
Aziraphale closed up shop almost immediately after he hung up the phone. He shooed everyone out of the store.  
“Even me, Uncle Zira?” The three year old, Ivy Device, didn’t want to leave her favorite place.  
“I’m afraid your mother has to take you home now, little one,” Aziraphale hated to see his favorite toddler leave, but there were simply more important things that needed to be done, like Crowley—lunch with Crowley, to clarify.

Since he had time to kill, Aziraphale put on his nifty glasses and skimmed through some of his more recent titles, which were selected for no special reason at all. He spent some time flipping through Gone with the Wind and Romeo and Juliet, focusing on the happier parts of the books.  
He didn’t get too far, though, because whenever someone who faintly resembled Crowley walked passed the shop, he looked up.   
One time, it actually was Crowley. Aziraphale rushed to put his books away, trying to hide them.  
“’Tisss just me, love, no reason to hide them.” Crowley heard his words out loud, “I mean-“  
Aziraphale beamed whenever Crowley talked, but especially this time. “I know what you meant, dear.” He got on his coat while Crowley held the door for him. “Shall we?”

Crowley nearly fell over when he first saw Azriaphale. Sure, he had gone up to a couple hundred years without seeing him, but that was a long time ago. In recent years, ever since the end of the world, they promised to see each other everyday. Yesterday was the first time that the promise was broken.

The ride to the Ritz was short, so they didn’t bother talking about anything too special. Aziraphale talked about Ivy’s new favorite book, and Crowley happily listened. They talked about Anathema and how she was involved in all this. Crowley mentioned some new music. Aziraphale missed that the most—how Crowley lit up when he talked about music. It was a rare sight, and in that car, on that day, the angel caught a glimpse of it.


	4. chapter four

the ritz.  
-

Crowley and Aziraphale sat at their usual table. Everything looked the same, yet they felt so different. They ordered and started to eat their food—all with avoiding a certain topic.  
The angel listened to the music coming from behind them while thinking of something to say. In all his years, he never had experience with something like this. Something so indescribable—so ineffable. But, he had to start somewhere, “Crowley, I am very-“  
“I know, darling. I am too. Now, let’s get on with it, you know, talking about our feelingsss and all.”  
Aziraphale was stunned at how well Crowley knew him. “In our time apart, I had a revelation. I came to the conclusion that, well, I need you. It might sound silly or human of me, but I do, dear, I really do.” There. He said it, something that he had said into the mirror a thousand times before.  
“I need you, too,” Crowley spoke, as he felt, without thinking. A new feeling waved over his body—one of vulnerability. He hated it, yet he wanted more. “I don’t want to ever walk out on you again,” Crowley confessed. Years of dramatic exits and wanting to run away came to an end in this moment.  
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale loved to say his demon’s name, “I don’t want to ever be the reason you leave again.” He had to fight back his happy tears. 

Crowley, however, could not fight back his tears, but the glasses hid them well. He smiled a pleasant grin, happy to be with his angel again. He finished his meal quickly, so he sat and listened to the music. It was some classical piano piece, the kind that Crowley would normally loathe, but the kind that pleased Aziraphale. The kind that Crowley would listen to for the rest of eternity if it meant he could be with Aziraphale. The kind that was often interrupted.  
“Crowley, dear, what did you do to you hand?” Aziraphale looked at the line across Crowley’s palm. With his eyes, Aziraphale said, May I?  
Go ahead. Crowley replied, not taking his eyes off the angel. The angel that was currently tracing the mark on Crowley’s hand. Crowley scooted his chair closer to Aziraphale, and the angel lent in. After a few moments, Aziraphale’s hand laid in Crowley’s. Crowley gave it a squeeze to make sure it was real., and he calmed down once he realized it was. They held their interlocked fingers up for the whole restaurant to see. No one looked, of course. No one except the angel and the demon. Aziraphale propped his elbow on the table—this was first, and only, time he had broken the ‘no elbows on the table’ rule—just to be closer Crowley. He leaned closer to their hands, giving the angel’s a prolonged kiss.  
Aziraphale was surprised at first, which caused him to flinch a little.  
“Too fast?” Crowley questioned with concern, not with anything reminiscent of how those words made him feel before.  
“Perfect.” Aziraphale smile and stared into his demons eyes, “Take your glasses off, dear.”  
Crowley did. He would do anything Aziraphale wanted right now. The fucking audacity that man has to be that cute in that new bowtie—unbelievable. 

The puffiness of Crowley’s eyes faded as his smile grew. The pair joyfully basked in the silence of the moment. Crowley didn’t believe in happy endings because he thought nothing ends happily; the truth was now clear—nothing ends at all. But, if happy endings were real, he might just have a good shot at one.  
As for Aziraphale, he studied Crowley’s eyes. The yellow hues in the warm lighting, the reflection of their surroundings. He studied Crowley’s tattoo by his ear. He studied all of him. Aziraphale’s food grew cold, the music stopped, and the lunch rush was over. The Ritz emptied as the waitstaff began cleaning tables. Crowley’s card was returned along with the receipt, but both went unnoticed. A credit card can be replace, remade, this moment, however, cannot. With the rest of the world fallen away; all that was left was an angel and a demon.  
-  
the bentley.  
-  
After a more than delightful lunch, Aziraphale got in the front seat of the Bentley. He found a tape labeled ‘For Anthony’ in the glove box. Curious, he played it. Those words captured a feeling shared by both beings in the car.  
Crowley hummed along to the lyrics of a song he helped to write, a song about Aziraphale—but that would remain a secret between Crowley and his good friend, Paul.

Baby, I’m amazed at the way  
You love me all the time  
And maybe I’m afraid of the way  
I love you

Maybe I’m amazed at the way  
You pulled me out of time  
You hung me on the line  
Maybe I’m amazed at the way  
I really need you

Maybe I’m a man  
Maybe I’m a lonely man  
Who’s in the middle of something  
That he doesn’t really understand

The lyrics caused Crowley to speed up. With this song, this emotion, he just wanted to return to staring into a pair of beautiful, bright blue eyes. Something he never wanted to stop doing.  
Aziraphale placed his hand on top of Crowley’s—a careful, well thought out move. “Slow down, dear.” And for once, for him, Crowley did.


End file.
